Seesaw
by alanwolfmoon
Summary: House and Wilson are arguing, when Wilson starts exhibiting some symptoms.


"House!"

House turned from being about to open his front door, blinking vaguely at his furious friend.

"What?"

"You!"

"Um, hello? What did I do?"

"You won't leave me alone! You can't stop screwing with me for one second!"

House blinked.

"How so?"

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN 'HOW SO'?! YOU BRIBED THE LADY AT THE FRONT DESK TO REPORT EVERY TIME I DIDN'T COME HOME!"

"Yeah, but only because you lied to me."

"I didn't lie to you! I just didn't tell you!"

"You lied by omission."

"I JUST DIDN'T TELL YOU!"

House sighed.

"Which is lying by omission. Same way with you sleeping with a patient, same way with you taking anti-depressants."

"YEAH! I HAVE SECRETS! WOW, THAT MUST BE SUCH A FOREIGN CONCEPT TO YOU!"

"Oh calm down. Maybe you need to start taking the happy pills again."

Wilson looked down, squeezing the bride of his nose.

His head was throbbing mercilessly–though it didn't feel like a migraine.

"Maybe I wouldn't need to take them if you didn't feel the need to push everything!" said Wilson, putting his hands on his hips.

House stared at him.

"What?!"

"Wilson." said House, calmly, leaning his cane against the wall, "your hand is twisted weird on your hip."

Wilson glared, not looking.

"Did you actually think I would get distracted by that?! I do know where my hand is, you know."

Then he blinked rapidly, as his balance faltered, his vision somehow seemed to split, and he staggered in place, trying to stay up, his leg feeling rather odd.

He started to fall towards the street.

A hand gripped his arm, and another grasped his shirt, pulling him so that he fell onto the sidewalk–and House–instead of into the road.

He gasped, as the left side of his body went fully numb.

"House!"

"Wilson, Wilson listen, I think you're having a stroke. Look at me, ok? Calm down and look at me." he felt House let go, and panic started to rise in his chest. He didn't know what was going on, he couldn't see, he couldn't stand, he couldn't–

"Can't!"

"What do you mean?"

"Vision's weird!"

House swore, seeing that Wilson was hyperventilating and scared, and placed his hand back on Wilson's shoulder.

"It's ok. Calm down, it's ok. It's ok. It's ok."

Wilson nodded, and was further scared to find himself unsure how much his head had moved.

He felt House move around behind him, pull him up, so he was sitting back against House's chest, one of House's arms holding him around the shoulders.

"Calm down. Calm down, it's ok. I'm calling 911, ok? I'm calling."

Wilson struggled, trying to turn and press his face into his friend's shoulder, he couldn't tell where his body was, and it wouldn't cooperate at all...

Wilson could feel, at least on his right, that House's hand was clenching his shirt, his muscles tense with worry.

He heard House talking quickly, explaining the situation, then the phone snapping shut, and House continuing to tell him it was ok.

He tried again to turn, but he couldn't tell if he was moving or not, except by looking, and he was having trouble enough with that.

He felt House grip his shoulders, turning him to where he wanted to be without needing to be asked.

Wilson sobbed, his face hidden in House's light blue shirt, his friend's arms around his back.

"Calm down, shh, it's ok. It's ok, I'm here, I've got you."

Wilson sobbed again.

House wasn't saying it would be ok. Just that it was now. House was scared too.

He gasped, as bolts of pain shot through his left side–the side he couldn't feel otherwise.

"What? Did something hurt?"

Wilson couldn't bring himself to try and talk, but he did manage to nod his head a little.

The ambulance pulled up, they lifted Wilson in, and House followed, forgetting his cane in his hurry.

One of the paramedics asked Wilson to repeat a sentence.

Wilson did, and looked slight less upset as he heard himself talk properly.

House held on to Wilson's right hand–Wilson freaked every time he let go–at the same time calling Cuddy, telling her what was going on.

She told him she would have the angio ready before they even got there.

He told her the problem was in the terminal part of the middle cerebral artery, between the branch for the central sulcus artery and the branch for the postcentral sulcus artery in Wilson's right hemisphere.

Cuddy told him it was ok, and to calm down, to let the people who would actually be Wilson's doctors be his doctors.

He told her it was in the terminal part of the middle cerebral artery, between the branch for the central sulcus artery and the branch for the postcentral sulcus artery in Wilson's right hemisphere.

Cuddy told him she would have Foreman look at the angio.

He told her it was in the terminal part of the middle cerebral artery, between the branch for the central sulcus artery and the branch for the postcentral sulcus artery in Wilson's right hemisphere.

She asked him how he knew.

He started on a list of Wilson's symptoms.

She said she would ask Foreman and the head of the neurology department.

He said to tell them it was in the terminal part of the middle cerebral artery, between the branch for the central sulcus artery and the branch for the postcentral sulcus artery in Wilson's right hemisphere.

She said she would.

House hung up.

Wilson was looking at him, scared.

"It's ok. It's gonna be ok."

Wilson nodded, still looking scared.

"Sir, have you got any idea what time this may have started?" asked one of the paramedics, as they lifted Wilson down off the back of the ambulance.

House looked at his watch.

"Twelve minutes, thirty seven seconds."

The guy blinked, but nodded.

"Has his condition–"

"Presented with abnormal positioning of left hand without awareness of the position, vision symptoms and hemispheric numbness on the left side started approximately ten seconds after first symptom, seemed to be fully in effect by one minute after fist symptom, pulse stable and respiration good, pupils normal, no speech symptoms or actual difficulty moving, no loss of consciousness, no sign of hearing, motor, respiratory, cardiac, personality, dystonic–"

Cuddy touched House's arm, and he realized that he had been trying to list every single stroke symptom Wilson didn't have.

"Stop. Let them do their jobs. Both Foreman and Dr. Baker agree with you. They are going to do a quick angio to tell if it's a bleed or a clot, but knowing exactly where to look will help a lot."

House swallowed, nodded, and started to follow after Wilson, into the hospital, but Cuddy's hand still held him back.

"Let them do their jobs. Where's your cane?"

House looked around, breathing quickly, looking confused and upset.

"I don't know, I don't know where I put it. It was by the wall and then Wilson and..."

Cuddy sighed, gently guiding him to a bench, sitting him down, and holding him still.

He was practically vibrating with nervous energy, upset, worried, flustered, and hyperventilating.

Cuddy bit her lower lip.

She had seen Wilson in the state multiple times before, House only twice.

There had been the time they got into a car accident in Wilson's old car, with House getting out with a broken finger and Wilson being carted off with a collapsed lung; and there had been the time Wilson's second wife had tried to hit him on the head with his seven iron, and had ended up breaking his collar bone instead–in the middle of thanksgiving dinner with House, Stacy, Wilson's parents, Stacy's parents, Wilson's non-missing brother, Stacy's sister, Bonnie's parents and three siblings, Wilson's aunt, uncle, and father's sibling of questionable gender.

House closed his eyes, trying to calm down, but it didn't work.

"House, he'll be ok. Everything's gonna be ok."

He opened his eyes, looking out at nothing.

"We were arguing."

Cuddy watched him sadly.

"If it was going to happen, it was going to happen. And he's not gonna die, so you don't have to worry about last wor–"

"No, I mean, really arguing. He was yelling. His face was all red. If it's a hemorrhagic stroke, that could easily have triggered it. Long term stress increases average blood pressure, which weakens vessels and arteries. Shouting, acute stress, they both trigger increases in blood pressure, if his bp was high enough to begin with, that could cause a vessel to burst. If it is a hemorrhagic stroke, the years of me annoying him, and the him having a reason to yell at me today could kill him right here."

Cuddy sighed.

"House, he's an oncologist. How much stress do you think that causes? And plus, it's partway along an artery, why would someone bleed randomly in the middle of their artery?"

"It could have been an aneurism. And it's still relevant, he–"

"House! He's an oncologist who's been married and divorced three times, has a missing brother, is just starting to be middle aged, and yes, happens to have an annoying best friend. Only one of those is your fault, and it's voluntary on his part as well as yours!"

"Bonnie thinks I messed with them."

"So? Bonnie's the one who broke his clavicle with a golf club! That wasn't you!"

"Yeah, but–"

Cuddy slapped him across the face, waited for the situation to hit him afresh, and scooted over on the bench, letting him curl up on his side and hide his face, the back of his head and neck against her leg.

"It's ok. Shhh, it's ok." she said, over and over, hand moving in gentle circles over his back.

The first time, he had turned up in her office, still covered in dirt and blood from the accident, shivering. She had thought something was wrong with him, and had tried to check him over, but he had just pushed past her, sat down on her couch, and started crying.

The second time, Stacy had paged her to an exam room, explained what had happened, and that she should really be keeping the crowd of family members who had all insisted on coming along from getting in people's way, and pointed to the corner, asking her to watch someone. Cuddy had nodded and walked over to the corner, knelt down, blinked, touched House on the shoulder and put her hand over his mouth when he yelled at Bonnie, who wasn't in the room.

This was the third time, and she knew by now not to be surprised at the desperate acceptance of help and comfort.

Someone came out a few minutes later, spotted them, and nodded to Cuddy when she looked up.

"We finished the angio."

House, still curled on the bench, stiffened.

"And?"

"It's exactly where they said it would be."

"Is it a bleed or a clot?"

"It's a clot, they're removing it now."

Cuddy nodded, shook her head when the guy opened his mouth to continue, and glanced at House.

The man nodded, leaving.

House was shivering, relief, remaining guilt, and worry getting the better of his attempts to control himself.

Cuddy watched him sadly for a moment, then placed her hands on his shoulders, gently pushing him to turn over, let himself uncurl, and relax his body. He didn't do so, however; just stayed curled tightly, still shaking, resisting even the turning over.

At this rate, he was going to give himself a stroke...

Cuddy sighed, getting up, kneeling down, and putting one hand on the side of his wet face, the other on his shoulder.

"House. He's going to be ok. He's going to be fine. This wasn't your fault, and he's going to be fine."

House nodded.

Cuddy gently rubbed his cheek with her thumb, waiting for him to get some measure of control back.

They both did this, but neither knew the other did it. They would cry or curl into a ball or yell at people who weren't there when the other was hurt. They also would typically come to Cuddy, because she knew it happened, and knew how to react. Cuddy wondered if she should tell them, but they always made her promise not to, and she didn't want to get both of them mad at her.

Cuddy smiled a little, as House's shoulder relaxed under her hand, and she felt the tears stop dripping onto her fingers.

"Better?" she asked, softly, watching him, trying to read his body language–given it was the only language he ever admitted what he was feeling in.

He swallowed, nodding tiredly, unclenching from his tight ball and letting his arms and good leg hang over the side and end of the bench.

"Ready to see him?"

House didn't answer.

Cuddy's thumb moved again, in soft, gentle circles.

He nodded.

"Ok." she said, softly, simply, letting him take his time or just not move after all.

He slowly sat up, sighed, scrubbed at his face with his hands, and pushed himself painfully to his feet.

Cuddy watched, a little upset herself, as House leaned against the wall, exhausted, emotionally drained, and without the support his cane usually provided.

She didn't ask if he was ok, or if he needed help. She didn't say anything at all. She just took a step, so she was standing next to him on his right, and waited.

He glanced at her, nodded, and pushed himself off the wall.

Cuddy took his elbow, helping him inside.

Just before the door, he stopped, looking at her.

"If you ever–"

"I promise I won't tell anyone ever, not even my own mother."

House looked at her for a moment. Then he took a deep breath, nodded, and continued on his way.

Cuddy watched, as House limped unsteadily into Wilson's icu room, giving his still-upset friend a reassuring smile, and sitting down with a bit of difficulty into the chair next to the bed.

Wilson was looking at him, frowning, and looked a little frustrated.

"How're you doing?"

His expression cleared immediately, and he rolled his eyes, "Just great."

House shrugged.

Wilson blinked.

"Still can't feel anything much on my left side. I mean, I can feel the blankets and stuff if I pay attention, but I accidentally sat on my hand and didn't notice. It's actually really weird. I can't tell where anything on that side is... and... uh, I didn't recognize you when you came in. But as soon as you said something, I recognized your voice."

House's face had been impassive and slightly upset the entire time Wilson was talking, but at the last one, his mouth twitched a little.

"Probably freaked you out, some random scruffy guy coming into your room and smiling at you."

Wilson laughed.

"Yeah, well, you don't look that threatening with the limp and all."

House smirked.

Wilson tilted his head a little.

"Where's your cane?"

"Where do you think?"

Wilson gave him a look.

"Sorry. I'm not sure."

"You lost it? How do you lose your cane?"

House shrugged.

"Sorry. I'll find it."

Wilson frowned a little.

"Um, you're the one who needs it, not me."

"Sorry."

Wilson's shoulders dropped, and he looked at House, exasperated.

"House. Stop apologizing. It's freaking me out."

"Sorry."

Wilson took a deep breath, looking at the ceiling.

"Ok, House, I have to wait for someone to talk to know who they are, and I sat on my hand. Wow, so much damage. I'm fine, ok? Stop apologizing, pity doesn't become you."

House jerked at that.

"I don't pity you, moron. That's not something I do."

"Well what else do you call how you're acting?!"

House stared at him for a moment, then looked away, his entire body practically yelling at Wilson that he was really, really upset about something.

"House... what is it?" asked Wilson, gently.

"Don't... don't do that. Don't be all happy and say you're fine. You're not. You had a stroke. You're not fine. You're not. You're forty three and you had a stroke. You're not fine."

Wilson frowned at his friend, then dropped his jaw in amazement.

"You... you... are feeling guilty?!"

House grimaced, looking at his feet instead of the phone icon on a button on Wilson's bed where he had been staring previously.

He looked up, as he heard a rustling sound.

Wilson was standing up, hospital robe a little too short–blushing a little but ignoring the fact.

"House. Stop it. Stop. It. See? I'm fine. Look."

"Wilson... ok, you're fine. Lie down." said House, getting up.

Wilson sighed, raising his arms in an exasperated gesture.

"Look, fine! See?!"

He waved his hands in the air, tried to spin, and slipped, bare right foot hitting some water he had spilled earlier.

He grunted, blinking surprisedly as he realized he was being held up by arms around his chest.

"House? I'm ok, you can let go. I just slipped."

"Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ow. Ok. I can't pull you up. I can't keep holding you up. You need to stand up."

Wilson pulled forward, then stood up, turning around to see if his friend was alright now that the extra weight was off.

"House? Are you ok?" asked Wilson, as he saw that House was very pale and holding himself up mostly by the bed.

"House?" he repeated, as House started to sag, the sheets sliding off the bed as his hand continued to grip them.

Wilson smiled ironically, placing his own arms around House's chest.

"It's ok."

House let go of the sheets, collapsing to the floor with Wilson clumsily helping him do it slowly enough to not hurt himself.

House curled into a tight ball around his bad leg, panting.

Wilson sighed, gently bracing his friend.

"I'm fine, House. You're the one who's not."

House just gasped, as another spasm hit the damaged muscle, and he curled further and tighter than before.

Wilson continued to hold him still, waiting for the pain to fade.

By the time House relaxed, he was trembling with exhaustion, and his eyes kept closing of their own accord.

Wilson shook his shoulder, but House didn't get up, just fell asleep where he was.

Wilson sighed, shaking his head.

"Jeeze... what did you do, run here?"

House, of course, didn't answer.

A few hours later, Wilson was sitting in bed, smiling a little to himself, as he listened to House's snores from the second bed, which had been placed in the room after Cuddy had decided that House passing out four times in a row was too much for him to get out of being admitted, even if they did know what the problem was.

"House?" he asked quietly, thinking of something.

House grunted sleepily.

"Why'd you care if I lied to you?"

"Mmm... cus you only lie about stuff that's gonna screw you up. You don't need to screw yourself up, I do enough of that for both of us."

Wilson blinked at him.

"How come you don't every say something like that when you're not stoned?"

"Because I'm not stoned, and therefore am in possession of my inhibitions."

"Ah."


End file.
